The Small Things
by anothermadchild
Summary: Anthea has gone missing. Kidnapped. Where has she been taken to? Who took her? And why? How will Mycroft rescue her? Contains Mythea and Sherlolly. Reviews Welcome. Seriously, please send me some reviews.
1. She's Been Taken

The Small Things

Mycroft got out of his car, and approached the door. He rapped on the door smartly with his umbrella handle. A few seconds later, hurried footsteps could be heard from inside, running down the stairs. The door opened to reveal Molly Hooper, half-hid behind the door and clad in an overly large cream jumper.

"Mycroft," she stated, "What are you doing here? You never come to visit."

"I've come to see Sherlock about an important matter, Ms. Hooper. Please excuse me," he answered dismissively. Stepping carefully around Molly into his brothers rather small entryway, Mycroft climbed the stairs to the upstairs flat.

Sherlock was clad in his red dressing gown, his back to the door tinkering with something on his cluttered dining table. "What is it now Mycroft? Got another government mess for me to clean up?" Sherlock sighed.

"Not this time brother dearest," Mycroft sneered. "This is a much more personal matter," his voice barely softening at the end. Most people would have missed it, but not Sherlock, he knew his brother all too well.

"A personal matter? I doubt you even have any personal matters at all Mycroft. But as you wouldn't be here if you didn't have a problem; and judging by the fact you came at all, it must be a large and rather delicate one. I'm afraid I can't help you. Now" he said, turning around to face Mycroft, "Go away. I have a case."

"No you don't. Not anymore." Mycroft said, glancing down at his phone. "I've had my men clear your schedule so you could assist me in this matter. They solved it this morning, and the culprit, a Mr. Denwink, is already in custody at Scotland Yard. As I've previously told you Sherlock, this is a matter of the utmost importance. It cannot wait."

"Mycroft," Sherlock seethed, his face livid, "I've told you before; **never**, **ever**, dare to even touch my work! How dare you solve MY case!"

"You forget Sherlock, I watched you grow up." Mycroft began, his voice steadily rising. "I knew you would be less likely to listen if you were preoccupied with a case. I need you utmost focus on-" But before he could continue, he was interrupted by a soft voice.

"Boys! You must stop shouting!" commanded the voice of Molly Hooper, who was currently standing right inside the flats main door. "Mycroft," she said, "You need to calm down. It's wrong and is very impolite of you to change Sherlock schedule without asking him first. Sherlock, please just listen to what he has to say. He came to you for help. He is admitting he needs you. _Mycroft_ is admitting he needs you. You can't just turn away your own brother when he reaches out to you for help."

"I can do what I want Molly. I won't help anyone who interrupts my work," Sherlock snorted.

Molly's eyebrows rose up, and she walked slowly over to him. "So, you're telling me if I interrupted your work, because I needed you, you wouldn't help me because I interrupted your work," Molly questioned.

"No," Sherlock said softly, lowering his head. "You're different."

"How so," Molly questioned again.

"Because I care for you," he quietly said.

"And you're telling me," Molly said, "that it's completely different for him, your own family"

"He interrupted my work, Molly," he whined.

"Sherlock are you actually telling me care so little for your own brother that when he needs you, you'd abandon him, because he interrupted your work" Molly said, her voice confident; she knew she'd got him. "Please Sherlock, help him. For me," she whispered.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock sighed, enveloping her into a hug. "For you, I would do anything."

"Are you to done with the domestics? Or shall I come back in about half an hour or so? I'd rather not, as this is most likely a matter of life and death," Mycroft said, in his usual emotionless tone of voice. Sherlock groaned, but he released Molly: he spun dramatically, his dressing gown flaring out behind him. He walked over and sat in his chair, and gestured of his brother to do the same. Mycroft sat the chair opposite, and Molly took up her usual position behind Sherlock's chair; her little pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes on case for later.

"So, brother dearest," Sherlock began. "What is so important you had to interrupt my work?"

"Sherlock," Molly warned.

"Fine," he snapped. "Tell me what is so vastly important you came to ME for help?"

"Anthea is missing."


	2. Essential Information

"Missing? And no one noticed? Surely your men aren't so incompetent that they don't notice when the bosses right-hand woman goes missing," Sherlock scoffed.

"That's what makes this case so delicate," Mycroft stated. "If it was that simple I wouldn't be here. Whomever took Anthea send a duplicate to fill her position. An exact look alike. No one in the office can tell the difference."

"Except you," Sherlock said, "You noticed."

"Unfortunately not right away," Mycroft admitted. "The imposter has an impeccable disguise. I first noticed something was amiss when her behavior became unusually quiet and very reserved; I assumed something had gone amiss in her personal life. But soon after she began to abstain from coming to my office to deliver messages, but began to send notes. Her handwriting even matches Anthea's. She's been gone for at least three days. " His eyes flicked down and he hesitated briefly before continuing.

" But it was the smaller things that confirmed my suspicion. She brings me tea in the afternoon; Anthea puts something in the tea to make it sweet, the imposter does not. She-"

"Stop!" Sherlock barked, raising his hand. "I understand your suspicions, especially in your line of work. But do you have any concrete proof?

"I do actually. Anthea has a small birthmark on the back of her neck. Right below her shirt collar. I noticed it while reading over her shoulder a few years ago. Her replacement wears her hair in some kind of up-do almost every day. She has no birthmark. The imposter is most likely a spy." Mycroft trailed off.

"So," Sherlock said, drawing out the word. "Your assistant is missing. You haven't sent anyone to search for her, most likely due to the fact you've been threatened not with words but some form of nonverbal communication. You know who has Anthea, and they frighten you: because you know he or she, most likely he, will kill your assistant. This man must be extremely threatening if you fear him."

"All correct," Mycroft replied. "The man who took Anthea is an ex-con we put in maximum security prison several years ago named Jake Reed. We received word a few months ago he had escaped. My Intel told me he arrived in London three weeks ago, and two days ago we found one of my men dead in an alley in central London, with Jake's initials carved into his back."

"I put all the pieces together earlier today, and my suspicions were confirmed when I received an email about an hour later from an undisclosed address that contained a picture of Anthea. Reed took her to punish us both for sentencing him to jail, as she was with me when he was arrested. He put a spy in my office to keep tabs on how close we are to recapturing him. I don't know where Anthea is, nor what he plans to do with her; but I know it cannot be good. Now, I ask you once again, please," Mycroft said, forcing out the next words. "Help me."

" You have your men, you have all the information, you know the perpetrator of the crime. So why do you need my help?" Sherlock asked.

"This is a sensitive matter. I need your help to make certain no mistakes are made. It is of the utmost importance that Anthea is found and rescued safely. We don't want to alert the spy to how much we know or alert to her that we are on the hunt, per se. This case is a matter of not only great importance, but also extreme secrecy. Only a select few of my men are even aware of what's going on: but none of them are as clever as you or I. I have already emailed you all the information we have. Now, will you help me?" Mycroft said ended forcefully.

"I will do what I can," Sherlock stated, as he rose from his chair. He picked up his violin and began to pluck at the strings. After a few minutes of silence he said, "Leave me."

"He won't help until he's ready too," Molly said as she rose from her seat. "But he'll call you the minute he has something. We will get her back Mycroft."

"Thank you Ms. Hooper. Sherlock," Mycroft said, " I expect to hear from you soon." He walked over to the door, and descended to the door and walked onto the street.

"He's really worried Sherlock," Molly said, walking over to stand behind him.

"I know." Sherlock mumbled.

"Please Sherlock," Molly whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Find her."

"I will," he promised.


	3. The First Time

Chapter 3. Has been edited.

Reviews welcome!

Mycroft turned the cover on the file, closing it. "Third time through, still nothing," he said, his voice echoing around the empty room. He put his head in his hands. After all day in the office, and staying after hours to look at Jake Reed's file, he still had no idea where to look.

His head met the surface of the desk and his hands came up to the back of his neck, and his thought fled to their favorite topic, Anthea. Tonight's selected mental torture was served the in the form of last memories; the last time he saw her, spoke to her, and held her. He could remember that night more clearly than he could anything in his entire life. He had taken her to her favorite Greek restaurant in Southwest London; a place with a name even he couldn't pronounce. There they went even considering that he didn't really care for Greek food; it was her favorite, and he would do almost anything to see her smile.

***flashback***

The car came to a stop, and he was outside rounding the car a few seconds later, swinging his favorite umbrella as he went. He opened up her door, and offered her his hand to step out.

"My favorite restaurant Sir, what a nice surprise," Anthea said, smiling up at him as she took his hand and stepped out of the car. "Is there a special occasion Sir? There's nothing scheduled on the calendar for tonight."

"These last few days at the office have been busy," Mycroft said as they walked through the front doors of the restaurant. "I think we both need a few hours off, don't you?"

"I agree completely Sir," Anthea said with a smile.

The evening began with the arrival of the waiter and being shown to their table, the whirl of ordering the food and drinks; he ordered a lobster dish and she ordered a lamb Euro with a bottle of wine to share.

After food was finished and the plates were whisked away, small talk was made until Mycroft voiced the question that was on both their minds. "So how do you suggest we progress with the Reed case?" Mycroft asked, studying the glass of wine in his hand as the liquid swirled slowly around the glass. "We barely succeeded in capturing him last time; and he's more clever than I would like to admit. And I'm afraid we won't be as lucky this time."

"I haven't the faintest idea Sir," Anthea admitted. "But we need to proceed quickly, before Reed does something to endanger the general population. We had twelve bodies mutilated to the point they were unrecognizable before we arrested him last time, and three more showed up in the following weeks. I'm afraid the count may be higher this time if we don't act soon."

"Unfortunately, I agree," he said with a sad smile. "Most of the criminals we track become close to enraged when they are arrested; they have to be tackled or shot for our men to even get close. But not Reed. I was there when they arrested him." He shifted his weight in the chair so as to look her straight in the face. His eyes got that far away look, the one where someone brings something buried deep in their memory right to the front of their mind.

"When we found him, he was just standing there, surrounded by body parts and covered nearly head-to-toe in blood. His knife was so bloody it was nearly black. And he was just smiling; this grin just full of joy and pride at the destruction he caused. And when we broke down the door and stormed the room, he just dropped the knife and put up his hands. He just _gave_ up; or surrendered would probably be a better word. When we had cuffed him, right before they took him out of the room, he looked back at me and said, " We're going to have such fun, aren't we?" The he just laughed; this crazed, insane laughter. I still hear it in my dreams some times."  
"Out of all criminals, the worst ones are the clever one," Mycroft sighed. "The most dangerous ones escape from prison. They're experts and playing the system and beating it, escaping it, controlling it. But they're also the best at disappearing into the shadows."

Anthea was speechless. She had read the file, knew all the details about the case. But nothing prepared her for her boss' account of the story. She looked at the table; she wanted to comfort her him, but had no idea how or where to start. "I'm..I'm sorry you endured that, Sir," she whispered.

"It's history now Anthea. What we need to focus on now is making sure this doesn't happen again," Mycroft reassured her. "We know more this time. We can stop him. All we have to do is find him." He raised his hand to call for the check. He paid and they gathered their things and ran through the rain to the safety of their car.

Mycroft gave the order for his driver to take Anthea home, and the car drove off through the maze of wet London streets. The ride was silent, except for the sound of the rain hitting the roof and tires on the pavement filled the small space. Mycroft picked up his phone and began to work on another file for the office. A few minutes later a small sniffle sounded on Mycroft's right. He turned to look at Anthea. Her shoulders were shaking and her eyes were wet with tears.

"Anthea?" Mycroft said, his attention completely on her. "What's wrong?"

She didn't respond. She lifted her chin and turned towards the window. A tear rolled down her face.

"Anthea," Mycroft said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Please. What is it?"

She shook her head, biting her upper lip. Another tear rolled down her face.

"Please," he whispered.

"I'm afraid," she said, her voice cracking. A third tear ran down her face. "With Moriarty, he targeted Sherlock; and Sherlock stopped him, just like we knew he would. But you led the team that arrested Reed, and he escaped. He'll target you. I don't want to lose you. I know you can stop him, but I'm terrified of what it will cost to get to that point." The tears flowed in earnest now. She buried her face in her hands.

Mycroft didn't know what to do. He wasn't good with emotions; but Anthea needed him. They both put up walls to hide and contain their emotions, and her walls had crumbled completely. He decided not to say anything, but he wordlessly put his arms around her and pulled her to him. She fisted his shirt in her hands, and her tears soaked through. But she cried silently, her shoulders shook, but no noise escaped her mouth. He kissed the top of her head, and held her tight.

The driver pulled up outside her door. When the car stopped she let go and pulled out of his embrace. "Sorry," she croaked. She wiped her face in attempt to clear away the black streaks that ran down her face. She avoided his eyes and grabbed her coat.

"Anthea," Mycroft began. But she was out the door and across the road before he could utter a second word.


	4. The Discovery

Chapter 4. More edits.

Reviews por favor!

Mycroft scrolled down his contact list and selected the name he was searching for. He pressed the call button and brought the phone up to his ear. The recipient of the call answered after the third ring.

"What?!" Sherlock's exasperated voice sounded through the phone. "I'm going over the file you sent me. I can't deduce anything about this case if you keep bothering me!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock I called because I need to go look over the warehouse Reed used as his hideout before he got arrested, and I want you to come with me. Two sets of eyes are better than one."

"Why can't one of your men go with you?" Sherlock whined.

"There not us Sherlock. This is of the utmost importance. I could nearly guarantee that they will miss something."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. "I'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

"Bring a flashlight," Mycroft said. He pulled the phone away from his ear and disconnected the call. Looking at the time he noted that he needed to leave now if he was going to meet Sherlock there.

He got up from his desk, donned his coat and picked up his ever present umbrella. He opened his door and walked down the brightly lit hallway to the front door of the building. About half way down the hallway was Anthea's office. He stopped at her door for a moment and looked at her books on her shelf and her pens on her desk. A sudden feeling of nostalgia over took him; a sudden longing for days past. Days when things were hectic and busy but when the people Mycroft cared about were safe by his side, or as safe as they could be.

"Sir, did you need something?" a voice questioned. He looked up to find Anthea's likeness had looked up from her computer and was staring at him."

"Ah, yes. I need you to call a car to the front for me," he smirked. "I have an errand to run."

Picking up her blackberry she inquired," Shall I call for your personal car or will any car do?"

"Mine will do fine." he said, forcing a smile.

"Can I assist you, Sir?" she began, starting to rise from her chair.

"No, no. it's just a family errand," he said, raising a hand to stop her. "However, I can't tell you when I'll return. Contact me if there are any emergencies." And with that, he turned around and walked to the front of his office. After settling in the back seat he gave the driver the address and was on his way.

Mycroft arrived at his destination to find Sherlock typing angry into his phone across the street. As he exited the car his phone sounded an incoming message. He pulled said phone out of his pocket and glanced down at the message. 'If you haven't arrived in thirty seconds I'm leaving. -SH'. Sherlock looked up at the slam of the cab door and his eyes followed it down the street.

As Mycroft crossed the street, Sherlock's prism eyes snapped back to his face. When he reached the opposite sidewalk Sherlock's voice reached his ears "Your late."

"Only a few minutes, brother mine," Mycroft smirked. "I walked here from the suit store a block away. My driver dropped me there as to not raise suspicion. I go there quite frequently as it is; the driver will think it's normal."

"You've been up all night studying the file. Learn anything new, brother?" Sherlock inquired.

"Not this time," he sighed. "That's why I had you meet me here. My men found nothing the last time they were here. But I have, a gut feeling, if you will; that _we_ will find something. As i previously told you, my men are incompetent compared to you and I."

"Fair point," Sherlock said "Let's proceed." He moved to open the gate of the fence surrounding the big grey building. They walked through the gate and the building loomed even bigger inside the fence. The building was two levels and about the length of an American "football" field. The facade of the building looked like a puzzle completed with pieces from different pictures; the walls were different shades of grey and cemented together in odd places. The building had many windows, but most of them were broken or had no glass in them at all. The gate had rusted all the way through, and emitted a ear splitting shriek when opened; the bottom of it scraped against the ground, and part of the metal bar along the side clattered to the ground.

"Not my choice for a hideout," Sherlock muttered, brushing the rust flakes off his hands.

"I agree." Mycroft confirmed. "The building is too old and run down for a business to operate out of it, so one could assume some form criminal activity takes place inside just by looking at it." They continued their walk to the door closest to them; there were boards loosely put up across the door, which the brothers promptly pulled down. Sherlock shouldered the door, and the latch easily separated from the door. The wooden door banged against the wall, and fell on the floor with a loud bang that echoed around a large room completely barren of any furnishings or objects. Two dark hallways led off to other rooms in the back of the building.

"I'll go one way you go the other," Sherlock said striding towards the hallway in the east wall of the building.

"Fine," Mycroft sighed. Raising his voice, he called to Sherlock, "You know what to do should if you find anything."

"Yes, Brother." Sherlock's voice echoed from the hallway.

Shaking his head Mycroft started toward the hallway opposite Sherlock's. The hallway continued for about fifty meters and ended abruptly in a dead end. 'Wrong,' Mycroft thought. 'Why build this hallway if it doesn't go anywhere?' He put his hands on the wall. "It feels like wood," he murmured to himself, barely audible enough for the mice in the walls to hear him. He scratched at the wall, and a coat of grey paint gave away to the boards fitted snugly behind it. He rapped on the boards, and heard the sound echo behind it.

Getting out his phone he sent a text to Sherlock, 'Found a hidden room. Go down the west passage. I'm pressing on. -MH' Pocketing his phone he raised both hands and pressed against the wall. The wood gave in a little, and a loud crack echoed from several of the boards. Pushing harder, more cracking coming from the boards. Mycroft took a step back, and rammed his shoulder against the wood wall. The loudest crack yet sounded as the boards split in half and gave away to the black hallway behind.

Stumbling back, he massaged his shoulder in an attempt to stop the vibrations traveling from his shoulder down to his fingers. He retrieved his phone once more, and activating his flashlight he set off down the dark passage.

He shined the light down the hallway, it continued a few more meters and abruptly took a left turn. Mycroft continued down the hallway and after a few minutes noticed the darkness was starting to lessen. This tunnel again ended abruptly, but this time there was a door in the wall, with bright light shining out underneath it. Turning off his flashlight he quickened his pace, and the door grew closer and closer every second. He stopped short of the door, and reached out to turn the knob.

A shrill scream sounded ;a scream full of pain and terror. The scream ended abruptly by a loud bang. A gun. Mycroft tore open the door and flew down the set of stairs the door revealed. The stairs ended in a small square room, dimly lit and dirty.

A sharp iron scent reached the Mycroft's nose. Blood. He looked down; and there in the middle of the floor, laying too still in a slowly growing pool of blood, was Anthea.


	5. The Funeral

Here's the next chapter! Sorry it took so long to write, but I had to do feels scenes and try to keep character and I really tried but it still might be awful!

Please leave some reviews, I really need them for this chapter!

"Amen." concluded the Reverend. Silence followed, filling up the small church. Two people stood and exited a pew close to the front and then slowly proceeded up to the casket in the front.

"We need a few moments, if you'd wouldn't mind," Sherlock quietly asked the reverend.

"Of course sir. Take all the time you need." The Reverend nodded at his young assistant behind him, and they exited the main room to the small office on the left.

Molly leaned over and placed her hand on Sherlock's arm, "Is your brother alright?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the only other occupant left in the room. Mycroft sat in the very back pew, his eyes downcast and hands in his lap. He was already seated when Sherlock and Molly had arrived; and he hadn't uttered a single word or looked up the entirety of the service.

"No," Sherlock stated simply. "He's isn't."

"Have you checked up on him since you two found her?" Molly questioned.

"I've called and texted him a few times," Sherlock sighed. "He didn't answer. He _always_ answers."

"What do we do?" Molly breathed.

"We need to give him time," Sherlock assured her. "When Mycroft was twelve, an uncle of ours that he was particularly close to died. He locked himself in his room for three days: he didn't eat or speak to anyone. But when the time had passed he came downstairs and resumed his daily routine like nothing had happened."

"He finished grieving quickly." Molly frowned.

"That's what Mummy thought; and he acted completely normal until the funeral, which was two weeks after Uncle's death. He sat through the entire service with a blank, inattentive look on his face, but when our mother asked him if he was alright, he shook himself out of it." Sherlock recalled. "But I've never seen him like this."

"He reminds me of you," Molly said. "Right before you jumped from the roof at Barts. His mask slipped."

"Mask?" he repeated. She could see the gears inside his head working; trying to understand the metaphor.

"Yeah," she said. "That's the way I think about it. You and your brother, you both wear these masks to conceal your emotions. When you both encounter times of distress, it slips. The people around you get a glimpse of all the pain and hurt you two hide inside. But then the moment's gone, the mask is back in place. And the walls come back up to protect you so nothing can make the pain any worse."

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock smiled, turning to face her. "You. Are. Brilliant. You may be even more clever than I am." Bringing his hands up to cradle her face, he dropped a small kiss on her forehead, and wrapped his arms around her to pull her into a hug.

Pulling away to look him in the eye, she smiled up at him, "I love you. I really do, I want you to know that. And as much as I would like to stay in your arms all day I'm going to check on your brother; he needs to know we're there for him. Why don't you go finish straighting out the details with the priest?"

Pulling out of his hug, Molly leaned up and pecked him on the cheek, then she turned and slowly proceeded to the back of the church. She reached the back pew and took the seat beside Mycroft. He remained completely still as she sat down and he continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes blank, looking at nothing yet seeing everything in front of him.

"Mycroft," Molly said softly, "Are you all right? Silly question, of course you're not. You've just lost someone you cared about." She paused, "I remember how I felt when my dad died; He got really sick when I was fifteen. The doctor said it was some kind of rare intestinal cancer, and it was too advanced to treat. He died a month later. One day he was here and the next a body that wore his face was in his hospital room." Her voice became even quieter than it already was.

"And I remember, when they told me he had died, that it felt like a piece of my heart died with him. After his funeral all I did was walk through life on autopilot and think ,_'Where have you gone? Why did you leave me? Why? Why? Why?'_ But slowly it dawned on me, he didn't make the choice to leave, and Anthea didn't choose to leave you. She would be here right now by your side if she could. You need to know that. And I wanted to tell you that we're here for you, that is John, Ms. Hudson, Sherlock, and I. Please call us if you need anything, anything at all." She got up and stepped out of the pew, but stopped when she felt a hand grab her wrist.

"It's my fault." Mycroft mumbled, letting go of her wrist. His voice was thick and gravely, as if it hadn't been used in a long time. "She went missing, and I didn't notice. I notice _everything_. And now she's dead, and it's my fault. " He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes struck Molly. They weren't blank or empty like they usually were: they were alive, filled with pain and sadness and so many emotions she almost couldn't look at him because his eyes looked too alien on his face to be his own. She took her seat once more next to him.

"Anthea has worked for me personally for seven years. I met her three years before that. She was by my side through everything. And now," his voice dropped, "She's dead."

Molly wordlessly reached over and wrapped her arms around him; after a few moments Mycroft relaxed into the hug, but he didn't reciprocate. She wasn't surprised; Molly had quickly learned once she began her relationship with Sherlock that he wasn't fond of physical touching, and she deduced Mycroft would feel the same. But he just lost someone important to him, Holmes or not, he needed someone, and Molly was going to be that someone.

After a few minutes, Molly released Mycroft and placed her hand on top of his. "Mycroft, they need to move her soon. Do you want to come say goodbye?" He nodded his head. She stood, and leading Mycroft by the hand together they walked back to the front to see Anthea one last time.

"Do you want to say anything?"

"What would I say? She's dead," he murmured. "She can't hear me."

Molly squeezed his hand, "Just talk to her. Say goodbye. It helps with closure." She paused, "I don't know what you believe; but I believe, she's somewhere, looking down at you. So really all you need to do is say goodbye."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Anthea, when you first showed up in my office to apply for your job, I didn't think you would be able to meet my expectations. But you surprised me, which is nearly impossible to do. You surpassed all my expectations, you preformed excellently under pressure, and you even made some connections that even I couldn't figure out. Nobody will ever be able to fill the shoes you left. Goodbye Anthea." His voice shook, but when he spoke again his voice was level. "I'll miss you."

He turned to look at Molly. "I'm done," he said. He pulled his hand free of Molly's grasp. "I don't think I will stay for the burial. If the priest has any questions Sherlock can't answer, have him call me. Sorry for my sudden exit." Mycroft turned towards the exit and began heading towards it.

"But-" Molly began.

"I'm needed at the office. Immediately. Again, so sorry for the sudden exit. Goodbye." Mycroft quicken his pace and exited the church before Molly could question him further.

Molly heard a door open behind her, and turned around to find Sherlock with the priest standing a few feet behind him.

Sherlock frowned "Where's Mycroft?"

"He left," Molly said, turning to look at the door Mycroft had left through a few moments ago.


	6. Everything is a Lie

Mycroft let out a breath of air that rebounded off the ice to float back into his face. Glancing up from the ice in his glass to gaze over the rim of the glass at the fire burning ferociously in the grate. Placing the glass on the small table next to his chair he rose and crossed the room to fetch his notebook and pen from his desk. His brain was running too fast and Mycroft couldn't decipher anything coherent from it; he needed to write his thoughts down if he was going to make any progress on the Reed/Anthea case tonight.

He had been writing for a few minutes when a knock sounded on the door. With a sigh he put his pen down and gave permission for the knocker to enter; it was his butler, Mr. Edwin. He took a step inside the doorway, and his voice followed a few seconds after.

"My apologies Sir, but I need to put another log on top of the fire."

"Go ahead," Mycroft responded, gesturing towards the fire without looking up from his notebook.

"Thank you Sir," Mr. Edwin answered, and quietly walked across the room and proceeded with his task. Once he finished he stood up and turned towards Mycroft. "Sir, it's quite late, and the Ms. Abbot said you didn't request any dinner. You need to eat Sir, may I bring you something?"

"I'm fine Mr. Edwin," Mycroft sighed. "I don't require anything.

"Are you certain Sir, it is not a bother at all to-" he began.

"I am fine," Mycroft snapped. "I will see you in the morning, Mr. Edwin."

"Yes Sir," he nodded. He quietly retraced his steps back towards the door. Placing his hand on the knob he turned around to glance back at his employer. "Oh, and Sir, someone dropped off an envelope for you earlier today. I've done all the usual checks, and it's safe. Would you like me to bring it to you?

Mycroft looked up from his work. "An envelope? Yes, Mr. Edwin, bring it to me immediately." The butler left the room and returned a few moments later with a small, square, tan envelope in his hands.

"Here sir. It was dropped off a little before noon," Mr. Edwin frowned, passing the parcel over. "And by whom I do not know."

Mycroft held the envelope in one hand. It was a DVD, he deduced; considering the package had around the same dimensions. "Thank you Mr. Edwin," he said, not looking up from the object in his hands. Turning the parcel over, he noted there was no writing on it. No name or instructions of any kind."I need to watch this immediately. You are dismissed, Mr. Edwin."

"Yes Sir," he nodded. "Have a pleasant evening."  
Mycroft barely heard the sound of Edwin's footsteps receding or the door latch closing. As soon as his butler began to walk away he stood up from his armchair and walked over to his desk and sat down in the chair. Mycroft retrieved his personal laptop, opened it, and once it had powered on he put the DVD in the disk drive and set it to play.

The screen remained black for a few seconds, and then an image came forth out of static. It was an clip of one of the larger screens in Leicester Square, with today's date and the time on it. The static returned, and a new image appeared. It was a woman slumped over in a chair, with long, mussed hair hanging in her face.

"Anthea," he gasped. A few more seconds passed by without her moving, and just as he started to wonder if Anthea was even still alive, a man walked into the frame. The camera cut him off just below his shoulders; he was clad in green camouflage pants and a form fitting grey t-shirt. His arms were roped in bulging muscles and his skin a light colour common to the people of England.

The man's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Anthea's hair, and used like a rope to pull her head back so she was looking upwards: she gasped, but did not cry out. Mycroft could finally see her face, bearing a few bruises and a deep scratch above her eyebrow. His eyes traveled downward; her white shirt was rumpled with blood splatters on the left side, her legs were covered in bruises and superficial scratches. Her shoes were out of the frame, he couldn't be sure if she was even wearing any.

The hand released her hair, and her head lowered to face the camera. Mycroft could now see tear tracks that cut through the grime on her cheeks.

"Well Mr. Holmes, it seems I have something you're looking for," a voice said. The voice had been edited, sounding closer to something that would be produced by a computer rather than a human voice box. "She's rather boring, isn't she? All she does is sit in a chair and stare off somewhere all day. Come to think of it, I don't know why I still have her; it would be so much simpler to dispose of her." And with that, he pulled out a small black gun, placed it on the side of Anthea's head, and pulled the trigger.

Anthea flinched, but only a quiet click sounded; not the bang he had been expecting. He let out a breath, not even realizing he had been holding it.

"That was fun," the voice said, pocketing the pistol. "We have such fun together," he continued, reaching out to grab Anthea's chin and forcing her to look up at him. A the top of a small speck of brown peeped out from under her collar as her neck stretched. "We play the best games here. But she doesn't quite play right; she doesn't scream. Not a single sound." Releasing her face he sighed, "It's only fun when they scream."

"I suppose you'll be wanting her back soon. You needn't worry; I'll return her soon." He reached out and raised the camera to face level. Mycroft let out a puff of air in surprise; the face looking out at him wasn't Reed. It was a man with modern styled brown hair and eyes. Mycroft deduced he was around forty years of age by his slight wrinkles and the fact his hair was beginning to grey at the edges.

"What's the matter, Mr. Holmes" he smiled. "Were you expecting someone else? Sorry to just disappoint you, it's just me. But don't worry, I'll take good care of your girl." The image was cut off by a static, and cut to black a second later. The replay arrow lit up the screen.

Mycroft stared at his laptop screen in shock. Everything important he knew about this case was wrong. He had nothing, no, correction, he had less than nothing. Sherlock, he needed Sherlock. Grabbing his phone from his pocket he dialed his brother's number. The phone rang two times before Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock! I need you to come to my house at once. I re-"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cut in. "You sound odd. What's happened?"

"Someone left a DVD at my home with a video of Anthea on it." He gulped before continuing. "A man I don't recognize was present with her. We need to try to pull all the information we can off this footage."

Sherlock sighed. "I was actually in the middle of something, brother. Molly and I were just about to-"

"As I recall, brother mine," he snapped. "You did promise to help me. I can count on-" stopping for a moment Mycroft took a breath. "I'd rather not have to ask twice, Sherlock. Can I rely on you?"

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose. Expect me in half an hour." the call cut off.

Mycroft looked down at his phone. He took a deep breath to low his heartbeat down. Anxiety wouldn't help her now. It was truly time to get to work.


End file.
